


The Smallest Act Of Caring

by WhisperElmwood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperElmwood/pseuds/WhisperElmwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written from this prompt, from Lillian Adler/Audrey: </p><p>Sherlock has strep throat and can't sleep. It's up to John to cuddle, coddle, and comfort his patient into a good nights rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smallest Act Of Caring

**The Smallest Act Of Caring**

 

“Well, Sherlock, this is just what you get when you go on jaunts through the sewer system. Maybe next time, you’ll at least get a breathing mask first.”

Sherlock made a noise that, at any other time, would have been a grunt of annoyance, but because the man’s throat was basically a petri dish right now, it came out as a wheeze, followed immediately by a pained whine. John chuckled as he tucked Sherlock in, making sure there was no part of him that wasn’t comfortable.

Sherlock was giving him the most pitiful looks, though it was clear he was actually trying to glare at him. The whole thing was pretty funny, actually. He fought the urge to brush the curls away from his friends eyes, instead he smiled, “I’ll make you some herbal tea. Try to get some sleep.”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Sherlock whispered and winced, his throat apparently protesting even that much use.

“Perhaps, but if you don’t sleep, it’ll take longer to get better, and you’re on bed rest until I give the all clear – and you know I have no qualms about drugging you, if it means you stay safe.” He’s joking. Mostly. He’d do many things to keep Sherlock safe at home and in bed, but he’d probably actually draw the line at drugging him.

Sherlock frowned at him, as if assessing whether he meant it or not, but John simply grinned and left the room. Thankfully, Sherlock’s room was just down the hall from the kitchen, so he could keep his ears open for signs of distress.

He goes methodically about making the tea – he’s got honey instead of sugar, to help sooth Sherlock’s throat, and help him to tolerate the penicillin and painkillers – boiling the water, cleaning the mug to make sure there’s nothing disgusting in it (which is a real concern, considering Sherlock had been studying samples from the sewers in the Tottenham area for the past week and a half) opening the box of herbal teas he bought in the hopes it would help.

He doesn’t hear anything from Sherlock’s room, until he’s almost done. There’s a thump, just loud enough to be worrying, as he’s squeezing the excess liquid from the tea bag.

“Sherlock?”

He puts the tea spoon and strainer down and heads to Sherlock’s room at a bit of a jog, only to find the man sitting on the floor beside the bed.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” Despite his friends feeble attempts at pushing him off, he gets his arms under Sherlock’s, and lifts him back up and onto the bed again. “Christ, you really wiegh more than you look like you should.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock actually looked annoyed with himself for that really rather lacklustre response.

John made to tuck him back in again, but his hands were batted away, “I can’t sleep, John. Can’t. Won’t shut down.”

The tortured sound of Sherlock’s voice as he spoke, was enough to make John wince; but at least now he knew what was wrong. Nothing new, thankfully; his friend’s brain was always awake, always busy, always taking in new information, going over old, sorting and resorting and thinking and ticking away and sometimes John was just surprised it hadn’t eaten itself into madness already.

He could do something to help with this. So long as Sherlock stayed still, instead of getting up and trying to find something to occupy his mind again.

“Please, stay still – let me get the tea, I’ll be right back.”

He paused, waiting for Sherlock’s acknowledgment – a petulant pout and nod - before he turned, went back to the kitchen. He grabbed the two mugs of tea – normal for himself, herbal for Sherlock – and was happy to find Sherlock still in bed when he returned. He placed both teas on the bedside table and toed his slippers off.

“What are-”

John sat on the bed, handed Sherlock his herbal tea and helped him take the first sip, “I am staying here, until you’ve drunk at least some of this.”

Sherlock gave him an assessing look – something he was actually more than used to, these days – and then quieted down. He sipped at the tea, and appeared to relax back into the pile of cushions and pillows John had scrounged up for him.

Patiently, John drank his own tea, keeping an eye on Sherlock as he did. The man was naturally pale, but right now he looked almost grey. There were enormous bags under his eyes, making the fact that he hadn’t slept in far too long extremely obvious. John also knew that his friend was running a fever and that his throat was extremely painful, swollen and sporting sores that made it even harder to swallow.

About half way through the tea, Sherlock made a face and tried to reach over to place the mug on the table – he couldn’t quite reach it, so John took it instead. He placed both mugs on the table and re-tucked the duvet around Sherlock.

“Thank you – now try to get some sleep, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scrunched his face up, remarkably like an annoyed five year old, and burrowed down, repeated; “Can’t.”

John rolled his eyes, “Here,” he shifted a little closer and – finally giving in to the urge – he brushed the curls from Sherlock’s face and then began a gentle massage of Sherlock’s temples.

Sherlock’s eyes closed and after a moment, he relaxed a little more, body sinking deeper into the mattress and pillows. It was indicative of precisely how bad he felt, that he was allowing John any such liberties, let alone willingly and without complaint.

John kept up the gentle massage for a few minutes, saying nothing, listening to Sherlock’s breathing, which, while slowing slightly, didn’t steady out into the pattern John was used to hearing from a sleeping Sherlock. He pulled away slowly, but a long fingered hand reached out from beneath the duvet and gripped his wrist, “Don’t stop.”

At least his voice was a little less scratchy. John sighed and smiled, “All right. Here, just-”

John helped Sherlock lift up slightly and he slipped into the bed behind him, back to the headboard, surrounded by pillows and cushions, Sherlock cradled in his lap, head on John’s chest. They settled down, got comfortable and John lifted his hands in to Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock sighed as John began a gentle massage, tension falling from stiff shoulders as he relaxed.

John was pretty sure Sherlock would either never speak of this again, once he was feeling better, or he’d demand it the next time he couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t sure he would complain if the latter came to pass, though.

If he didn’t know any better, he would call what Sherlock did next ‘snuggling’. He couldn’t quite use that word though, even as the much taller man did precisely that, curling slightly, making a small sound of comfort. He smiled to himself and kept his fingers moving.

Half an hour later, Sherlock was fast asleep. He’d turned over, wrapped his arms around John’s middle and was completely and utterly gone. John’s own arms were wrapped carefully around Sherlock’s shoulders, one hand still in his unruly hair. He was comfortable and Sherlock was finally sleeping, so he stayed where he was, trying not to think what his friends reaction was going to be when he finally woke up.

He’d deal with that when it happened. 

**Author's Note:**

> Occasionally, I write from prompts :) Hope this was ok, Audrey.


End file.
